Page 19
Around my father, I was driven by principles. Around Alarik, morality clouded my judgment.
“But if I'm being honest, I need your help.”
Alarik looked at me, slightly tense, and I did the first thing my gut told me to do.
“Okay. I'll see what I can do,” I sighed.
Relief spread across his face, and he nodded gratefully before heading back to the house.
But one question remained.
“Alarik” I hurried to catch up as he turned to me and waited. “What did you mean by dark witchcraft?”
His expression darkened. But he didn't hesitate with his answer.
“I only know that it exists and that it can cause damage whose consequences we cannot even begin to imagine.”
Silently, I walked beside him.
Dark witchcraft. He had dealt with it. Against the rules of the Code, which forbade us from engaging in Quatura knowledge.
It frightened me that there was so much seriousness in his eyes, yet, at the same time, a hint of restlessness. It stood in stark contrast to the soft sound we made with every step we took in the snow toward the house, and even more so to the chirping birds that filled the forest with life, even at this dark time of year.
Chapter 3
Bayla
How the West Was Won
Secession Studios, Greg Dombrowski
“God fucking damn it! Which disloyal traitor fucked this witch?!” the tall, gray-haired man standing near the Copeland Alpha blurted out, and I flinched for the seventh time.
Loud people always sent me into an inexplicably intense state of paralysis.
“If she’s from Blairville, it must have been someone from your pack! One of your men betrayed you, Nickolas!”
Nickolas seemed to value the aggressive man's opinion because he didn't object to or defend anyone, which made me wonder who this loud man was.
He wore a black vest over a grey-colored shirt with a silver rose brooch, had a Russian accent, and I could have sworn he didn't even belong to the pack.
The double doors to the elegant study – with its many hunting trophies and beautiful fireplace – where I was standing, sending silent prayers to heaven every passing minute, opened, and Alarik appeared with Emely slightly behind him.
“That shouldn't matter. She's one of us, and that's all that counts,” he said, and I thanked fate – if something like that even existed – inwardly that my prayers had been answered. At least once in my miserable existence in this town.
I couldn't have endured another ten minutes with these complicated and authoritarian men who – like everyone else here – could transform into oversized beasts.
“We shouldn't overwhelm her unnecessarily. She can't help the circumstances.”
I looked at Alarik with gratitude, but then remembered that he had brought me here.
“He's always meddling in your affairs!” the Russian grumbled, snapping the Alpha out of his reverie.
Nickolas Copeland was very secretive, could stare people to death, and looked as if he was carrying around a thousand tons of frustration. He appeared to be a good ten years older than Alarik and looked surprisingly unlike him. Only the facial structure and curls, which were more pronounced and blond-gray in Nickolas, whereas Alarik's were more wavy than curly, were similar.
“How dare you!” the Russian barked, and he and Alarik glared at each other for a few seconds. Eventually, Alarik looked away, as if the unpleasant man’s gaze was causing him pain.
The two didn’t seem to be tea table besties.
